


The Deserters

by telamonian



Series: Under The Thrall [1]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Demons, Jewish Character, M/M, Slow Burn, demon!Goody
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-08-28 07:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8436997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telamonian/pseuds/telamonian
Summary: "Come to collect?” Billy intones, a challenge rather than a question."As well as that went for my predecessors,” the demon says, pausing to watch Billy drop the man he had been holding, “I think not.”





	1. Coming to Collect

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very old and I haven't posted a fic online since Star Trek 2009 came out and I was still on ff.net so I still haven't gotten the hang of how fandom works these days. That said I'm having fun with this AU and wanted to share.
> 
> Also, please bear with me, my computer's broken so I'm posting this from my phone! Chapters will be short but hopefully frequent.

When Billy Rocks sold his soul to the devil for a ride to the states, he sold his name and a few memories of his old life, too. Those went first, actually, the soul to be collected from him when he arrived at his destination. 

At the time, he thought it was a small price to pay for a second chance. But he hadn’t seen the hollow men who came before him. When he arrives, he sees what awaits him. To be carved out inside, robbed of selfhood, with eyes open but always sleeping. Sometimes, when you approach one of these poor thralls too quiet, they wake with a start as if drawn back to this plane by an invisible hand. Only not everything comes back with them. Half here, half rotting in hell already.

His time is coming. The clock ticks away, and seconds are precious. His heart cycles through grief, anger, denial, panic, impatience. And he changes his mind. He wants every second he has left to belong to him and no one else. So when the demons come to collect, he’ll be ready. He stocks up on salt and holy water. Not the way he’d do it usually, but he’s sold his soul to a white man’s devil, so he guesses he’ll kill it the way a white man would. 

The first demon dies easy. It wasn’t expecting a struggle. Fair enough, he figures most people don’t fight back. The second demon is just a bit more clever, coming for him in his sleep in a bedbug-ridden hotel room in Tennessee. But Billy sleeps light and with an iron knife under his pillow. He kills the second one just the same and goes back to bed like nothing happened. Pleasant dreams and all.

The third demon looks like a man. A charming enough man, but tired, old, and weathered in ways demons aren’t supposed to be. That’s fine, Billy isn’t what he’s supposed to be either. This demon comes to call on him in Texas, in a recently evacuated saloon in broad daylight, as Billy’s got an unconscious man by the collar. Billy might not have known what it was until it let slip an unholy smile. 

“This your handiwork?” The demon asks. It motions to the battered and bruised men lying all around them.

“Yes. Come to collect?” Billy intones, a challenge rather than a question.

“As well as that went for my predecessors,” the demon says, pausing to watch Billy drop the man he had been holding, “I think not.”

“Come here to waste my time then?” 

“Not my aim, but perhaps, depending upon how the next few minutes transpire. I have a proposition.”

“Bargains made with your kind do not always end well for mine,” says Billy with a touch of bitter humor.

The demon nods. His - its - expression is almost apologetic. Billy sees horror stories written there, and something like regret, and he wonders why the forces of hell sent him this demon if not to play on his sympathies, to lure him into a false sense of security before ripping his soul out through his chest in the middle of an otherwise pleasant conversation.

“I’m not looking for a thrall, just a business partner,” the demon says. “You set the terms, nothing you don’t agree with. You’d be free to leave any time. Wouldn’t be too much money in it, but I could promise fewer barroom brawls and no rude awakenings by ‘my kind’ in the middle of the night.”

Billy considers his surroundings. Considers the abomination before him.

“Let’s talk,” he says.

The demon extends a hand that Billy carefully shakes. And he - it - smiles.


	2. Goodnight Robicheaux

They're moving west from Texas, towards a land of riches - they won't be mining, of course, the demon says, but they will part some fool miners from their coin.

They set a grueling pace and ride all day. The demon has a horse. Not a horse from hell or anything. A normal horse just like Billy's. Probably not stolen like his. Demons don't really need to steal to get what they want.

They've made camp out in the open; between the two of them, there isn't much to worry about. Billy has tried to enjoy the silence of the open plain, but one way or another, the conversation starts again. Sometimes it is the demon and its damnable need to chatter, sometimes it is Billy's own curiosity.

“You eat food,” Billy observes aloud, watching the demon tuck into the stew he’d prepared over their campfire - the stew he thought he wouldn’t have to share.

“Of course I do,” says the demon. 

“I thought you wouldn’t have to."

"I didn’t used to, but I’ve lived up here too long. This body is almost human now."

"Do you need to sleep? Get cold in winter?" Billy asks, watching the demon stretched out before the fire, basking in the warmth.

"No on both counts, but I appreciate a nap now and again, and the fire reminds me of home." 

Billy's demon winks. He smiles despite himself.

"You know my name," Billy says after a quiet moment. "So what's yours?"

"My true name," the demon starts dramatically, "is a very well kept secret. It became tiring being summoned to all four corners of the Earth by anyone with enough brains in their head to read a grimoire and pronounce the infernal tongue of Hades."

The demon notices Billy's lost interest in its ramblings halfway through but can't help itself. It goes on about the last time it was summoned to this plane by an unimaginative mortal who wanted to make a bargain to save his livestock.

"So what do I call you?" Billy says after it's done, unimpressed.

"Mortals call me Goodnight Robicheaux. A name invented for me by a little old lady in New Orleans."

"Before or after you stole her soul?"

The demon grimaces. 

"Before."

Billy tosses another log on the fire and watches the embers rise.

"Anything shorter I can call you?" he asks.

"A close, human friend of mine calls me Goody."

"A demon with a human friend?"

"It's more common than you think," Goody says, takes another spoonful of piping hot stew into its mouth, and swallows before adding, "hell is seeing more and more deserters these days. You could walk by a retired demon on the street and never tell."

Billy raises an eyebrow. "Is that why you're here? Did you abandon your duties?"

"You'd be a thrall by now if I hadn't."

"Don't flatter yourself," says Billy. "I handled the first two they sent. You don't look much stronger."

Goody scoffs. "Not stronger, smarter maybe."

"Than them, or me?"

"We'll soon tell I suppose."

"Yes," says Billy, eyeing his demon, "I suppose."


	3. Alike and Unlike

Most days now, if Billy's in a fight, it's one he's signed up for and he's getting paid to do it. He is grateful not to have to beat so many drunk, white men anymore. Not with Goody there to talk everyone down before fists and knives start flying. Sometimes, the silver-tongued devil even leverages an apology from the racist masses. Not that Billy needs the help, but it is appreciated – he admits only to himself, and even then begrudgingly. 

And it is a sight to see Goody turn a crowd from violence, playing on his apparently mythical reputation. Goodnight Robicheaux is a familiar name to most, even if the accompanying face isn't. And even if you aren't sure where you know the name from. There are stories, certainly, but no one can make up their minds how they go. Goody says that's just what happens when you've been around as long as he has; it's not the stories that matter. Just the name. 

For demons, names hold power over their owners. That's backwards from mortals. Humans are susceptible to all sorts of names other than their own. Even fake ones like Goodnight Robicheaux. But humans' names also give them a kind of power over the world. 

Of course, Billy doesn't have that anymore. When he tells the demon that he sold his name in his bargain, it seems truly sorry. Demons aren't meant to show sympathy. And that's the strange thing about Billy's demon. 

...

Alright, _one_ of the strange things.

Goody eats like a man. Drinks like a man – or a fish. Sleeps less than a man, but sleeps nonetheless. He enjoys such simple, mortal pleasures as smoking tobacco and watching the sun go down. 

Billy isn't sure about carnal pleasures; he's never had the heart to ask. But he's never seen Goody look at a woman as anything other than a friendly face or as the person serving him his drink. 

Though Billy supposes there are mortal men like that, too.

–

Of the two of them, Billy is somehow still the one viewed with suspicion when they ride into town. Not his demon companion who is incredibly unsubtle about its origins. How often Billy finds it making some joke about hellfire to a fellow patron at the bar, flashing that gold-toothed grin and winking. Goody says most mortals will hear and see what doesn't upset them. Maybe Goody was right; would Billy know a retired demon living among humans? He only clocked Goody as a demon because he was expecting one.

Everywhere they go, Goody knows someone. Someone with debts and dues unpaid. But in exchange for a soft bed and a warm meal, Goody politely allows more time to pay off their end of whatever bargain they made. Always the gentleman. Billy's demon is ever so generous, and nothing but smiles. You'd think it wasn't implicitly threatening to steal your soul.

If he's being honest, sometimes Billy thinks he could forget that his associate isn't human. Maybe he wants to. You don't want to think something so wicked could be so charming. 

Billy gets caught off-guard by an anecdote about a witch Goody knew once. She fell asleep on top of her familiar and ended up with a flattened black cat following her around for the rest of her life. Billy finds a chortle escaping from somewhere inside of him. It seems to surprise Goody just as much as it does him.

And the thing is, he knows he should leave it be, but Billy finds himself curious about Goody. Over a shared bottle of whiskey in a spare bedroom graciously offered them by a very nervous acquaintance of Goody's, Billy asks, "So. What would you do with a thrall?" 

"Wait for it to be useful," says Goody. "A thrall is a chess piece, to be positioned and played at the right moment."

"A thrall is a person," Billy says, incredulous.

"A thrall _was_ a person," Goody says plainly.

And that's that conversation over.

–

Not everyone is subject to Goody's charms. The demon says there are folks out there who spend their lives hunting down creatures like it for bounties or trophies or a misplaced sense of revenge. They'll go after anything - demons, vampires, werewolves, witches. And their trained eyes can spot the creatures a mile away. Goody has had numerous encounters with such hunters in its travels. 

He tells Billy about the twenty years it spent hounded by a spectacularly gifted hunter of a very singular mind, bent on eradicating it from the earth before succumbing to consumption. On her death bed, Goody appeared before her with a bouquet of wildflowers. Her last action on this plane of existence was to stab him in the heart with a blade blessed by a priest. Goody recalls the tale fondly, shows Billy the burn mark on its chest where the knife seared it.

"Sharp mind like yours, you might have done well in that business," Goody tells him.

"But instead I've taken up with an abomination," says Billy. 

"Ha! And you're all the better for it."

Not all monster hunters seek to kill their targets. Quite the contrary, Billy learns that the human friend Goody mentioned before is a monster hunter himself. A man by the name of Sam Chisolm. 

"A good man," Goody tells him, shaking his head and chuckling softly, "doing good work."

It doesn't seem to matter that some of that work is killing Goody's kin; it has nothing but effusive praise for the man. Goody could regale Billy for days with stories of his heroic deeds, but he falls silent on the subject of their meeting. There's an unspoken history to Sam and Goody that Billy doesn't expect he'll be hearing any time soon. 

Sam has slayed vampires, banished spirits, performed exorcisms, and hunted werewolves. But he's also saved witches from the gallows, and kept demons from an untimely death on more than one occasion. He imagines Goody is one such fortunate demon.

Once Goody is on the subject of Sam Chisolm, or anything really, it is hard to get him to stop talking. It isn't long before Billy knows more about Sam than he does about Goody. Not that it's particularly difficult. Goody will tell stories about himself, but he's never the main character. 

Oh, the demon will talk about itself of course, but it skips over the circumstances of its own past, dodging questions about why it was sent to the mortal world, how long it's been gone from hell, when it abandoned its duties, what sort of powers does it still possess. But it changes the subject so carefully, fires back with a “you know, that's interesting that you should ask, actually” and diverges into a completely different topic of conversation. Sometimes Billy doesn't realize until hours later that he never had his question answered.

And he almost has to admire that sort of pigheadedness.

–

Traveling with Goody makes for an easier life than living on the run. Yes, in both scenarios, Billy is constantly moving, but in this there is at least the promise of a settled future. And he has to admit, he hasn't made the worst choice in a business partner. The demon handles the financial aspect of their arrangement transparently. It makes itself easy to trust, counting up their money in front of him. And he gets half the winnings from his fights, if not more.

The demon asks Billy questions about himself, which no one he has known since arriving in America has done before. Of course, he doesn't have too many answers. Whole chapters of his life have been ripped from his memory. He remembers his mother and grandmother cooking dinner for him as a child. He remembers stargazing with his brothers. 

Then there are senses divorced from events. Imprints on his skin of sensations with no context attached. Sounds and sights that mean something to him on a level he can't access anymore. He starts to tell them like a story before realizing there is no way to anchor them in time. He cannot recognize any of the actors in them but him.

“Once, I was stumbling and falling and splashing through the water,” one story goes. “Once, there were strong hands lifting me up. And once my name on someone else's tongue sounded so sweet. Once, I drank and laughed at nothing and turned red. ”

Billy tells Goody everything that he does remember. For his part, the demon acts as if it is legitimately interested in what he has to say. Even the crumbs of the memories he sold away.

–

For all that he is good company, Goody also has some habits that grate on Billy.

If they pass too close to other travelers on the road, Goody will try to strike up a conversation. The night turns into another round of Goody telling his stories in front of a campfire, with Billy trying not to fall asleep in front of his demon's new friends.

Goody loves to buy gifts. It's a near obsession of his. Billy learns that he can't be seen admiring anything, or it'll end up in his saddlebag that night wrapped in brown paper and string. He accrues so many of these gifts over the months they spend together. They're mundane, trifling things, mostly. An apple or a knife sharpener. Some gifts Billy tries not to accept. Two months into their partnership, and Goody gets his hands on a silver hairpin for him and won't let Billy refuse it. 

He'd be embarrassed by it, but the demon does it for strangers, too. Billy catches it buying a doll for a little girl as they pass through New Mexico.

“You need people to like you,” says Billy later that day.

“And what exactly is wrong with that?” asks Goody. “Is this your way of saying thank you?”

“It means you don't do things for other people. You do them for yourself.”

Goody laughs.

“An astute observation,” he says, “but tell me this – do you think those people care if someone does them a kindness only to make himself feel better?”

It's a pragmatic answer. Not a surprising thing for a demon to say. Billy isn't sure what he expected to hear, but it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He just shakes his head at the demon and doesn't give it a response.

Because he'll eat his hat before he answers, “I care.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a working computer again, so I'm going to endeavor to make chapters longer now that I'm typing on a full keyboard instead of with my big fat thumbs on my phone.
> 
> Also, thank you for your lovely responses to this so far!


	4. Procession

It is four months into the journey, and Billy notices an unfortunate side effect of traveling with Goody. Because of his presence, Billy's dreams are overtaken by the princes of hell. He mentions it to his companion once. The demon apologizes, says the dreams were meant for its mind not Billy's.

In the dream that comes back to him most often, parades of the unholy creatures wander across a barren desert in his mind. Each acknowledges him in turn. He feels eyes on him in all directions and the skies bear down like a rolling wave crashing over head.

An old man riding a crocodile eyes him warily as he passes. On his arm he carries a hawk that shrieks Billy's old name. When he awakes again, he can't remember it.

Next in the procession comes a demon of one hundred faces. He slithers and crawls and walks and flies. Once a red dragon, once a man, once the faces of the demons Billy killed. Once it looks at him with Goody's face and smirks before becoming smoke, then a herd of cattle, then a swarm of locusts.

Then comes a raven, carrying chains of gold and strings of pearls in its talons. It screams in a child's voice of cities burning to the ground, kingdoms to be turned to ash with names lost to dusty tomes. Kingdoms past, present, and future.

Billy sees the demon whose hand ferried him to this land. He appears in the form of a sturdy man with the tail of a snake, riding a white horse. He remembers the name – Bathin – speaks it firmly and sees the demon recoil in shock and terror but stand still, waiting. With a dark chuckle, Billy releases the creature and it rides off expeditiously.

The last demon he sees before he wakes is always the same one. The naked form of a man with six bright wings riding upon a massive, black wolf the size of a horse. It holds aloft a sword of glimmering steel and stares at him with the face of an owl, black eyes unblinking.

When he wakes, Billy finds Goody staring at him, and does not share the contents of his dreams.

–

Among the most important rules that Billy learns about demons, is to remember that they are expert and prolific cheaters. They don't need to be; in the average card game between a human and a demon, the demon already has the advantage. But Goody says there is a certain thrill in wondering if the human will catch on. Billy says demons can't be satisfied playing one game, so they have to play two.

Every now and again, on the road or in town, Billy will turn to find Goody with a deck of cards, already dealing him in for a game he never agreed to start.

“It's called _vingt-et-_ _un_ ,” he says on one such occasion. “It's a very simple game.”

“What are we betting?” asks Billy. It won't be money, of course, that would be boring.

“Words,” says Goody. “Every round that I win, you'll say something kind to me. Is that fair?”

Billy considers this request for a moment.

“Yes,” he says. “What are your stakes?”

“I'll let you decide that,” asks Goody.

Billy takes no time at all in answering.

“Every round I win, you answer a question honestly.”

The demon's hands stop shuffling. It eyes Billy cautiously. Hands itching to play, sure of its own ability to outfox him. Yet honesty is a high stake. It looks less like that charming man from before, more of coldness and calculation in its eyes now. The game becomes a bargain of its own. Here they are again, the demon and the mortal engaged in the art of negotiation. Not an unfamiliar situation for either.

“Any question but one,” says Goody. “I won't tell you my true name.”

“That is fair,” Billy concedes.

And so the game begins.

As promised, the premise is uncomplicated.

Goody deals Billy and himself two cards.

Billy's two cards and one of Goody's are face up, the other of Goody's cards faces down.

Goody may deal either of them more cards upon request.

The players want to have the highest value cards without exceeding twenty-one. Thus the name _vingt-et-un,_ from the French.

In the first round, Goody has twenty to Billy's seventeen. He reveals his cards without looking at them, only gazes expectantly at Billy as he waits to hear the kind words he has earned.

It takes Billy a long moment to think of something to say that wouldn't feel strange in his mouth.

“You have a way with words,” he says at last.

“Why, thank you!” Goody says as if his praise were completely unanticipated.

The next round, Billy busts with a twenty three and takes three minutes to think of what to say.

“You dress well,” he says as Goody begins to get impatient.

“Well, I'm glad you noticed,” says Goody.

The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth rounds go much the same way. Goody always seems to draw exactly the cards he needs to beat him.

Each time, Billy manages to think of a sufficient compliment. Each time, he sees Goody's face redden as Billy singles out an aspect of his manner or appearance. An interesting effect to be certain, which Billy uses to his advantage. As the game goes on and Billy continues to lose to Goody over and over, he makes comments on Goody's presence, his beard, his hands, his eyes. Billy watches him come undone.

The last round they play, Goody's face up card is a four. Billy has a six and a five. He asks for another card and receives a nine.

“Twenty,” says Billy.

Goody, who has absentmindedly drawn himself another card, busts with a twenty two. He does a double take.

“That's not right,” says Goody.

“Isn't it, Goody?” says Billy slyly. “Were you expecting a different card?”

Goody looks up at him, all innocence.

“I don't know what you're implying,” he drawls, “but you may ask your question.”

This, Billy knows, is likely to be his only chance at this. The game is winding down. He is tired. And Goody certainly won't let this game continue much longer now that Billy has won a round. There are so many things that he wants to ask, but he figures there is one question that supersedes the rest.

“Why did you desert?” asks Billy.

Goody tries to deflect, starts and stops his sentence three times, but his mouth will not let anything escape but the truth as per the terms of their agreement. He is bound to their bargain.

“I didn't have the stomach for it anymore,” he says finally.

Somehow, that's exactly what Billy was hoping to hear, but it doesn't feel as rewarding as it should.

–

It happens that Billy and Goody are riding high from another day of winning quickdraws and of collecting a satisfyingly thick wad of cash for their trouble. They set off on the road at dusk rather than stay in town another day; even with Goody's sway, they had been pushing the bounds of their hosts' patience and hospitality.

Goody is telling stories again. He tells one very long tale about a man named John, the take away from which is he planted a lot of apple trees. Not the most interesting of Goody's tales, but Billy nods and asks questions at all the times that Goody pauses and waits for him to do so.

They set down by a creek and Goody leans over to him.

“Do you want to see something miraculous, Billy?” he asks.

“I think you'll show me anyway,” says Billy, but he cracks a little smile, and that means 'yes.'

Goody removes the canteen from his pack and dips it into the flowing water until it is filled completely. Then, he caps it shut, shakes it around a little, rubs both hands on the sides, says something unintelligible, and hands it over. He watches expectantly as Billy opens the canteen and lifts it to his lips.

“Wine,” Billy says simply.

“You could at least pretend to be impressed.”

“It isn't very good wine, Goody.”

Billy hands him the canteen again.

“I'd like to see you give it a try, you ungrateful-.”

Billy stops him mid-sentence, placing a hand on his shoulder as he looks out on the creek.

“What on Earth is it, Billy?”

Both of them rise and Billy silently points out a figure floating down towards them on top of the water. The demon stiffens and stands stock still as Billy wades into the creek. He brings back with him the waterlogged body of a man, bloated and blue. Goody steps away from the dead man but will not look away.

As unpleasant as the sight is, Billy looks over the deceased, trying to piece together his identity as much as possible. There isn't much to go on, but Billy notices a mark on the man's flesh that he's seen twice before. Letters from an unfamiliar script burned into his wrist. Billy saw the mark once in the procession of demons from his dreams, and once on one of the soulless men that he met back in New England before deciding to escape the same fate.

Billy looks up at Goody and knows that he has spied the mark as well.

“Whose was he?” Billy asks.

“Andras,” Goody mutters.

“Who is Andras?”

Goody says nothing. Billy moves on.

“We have nothing to bury him with,” he says.

The demon taps twice on the canteen in its hands before uncapping it and pouring out its contents – now a viscous, black liquid – over the dead man. It drops the container, removes and lights a match from the case its pocket, and flicks it at the body which bursts into flames at once.

They walk away mutely after collecting their belongings.

–

“You should get some rest,” Goody says after they have walked a mile or so from the creek. “We'll set out again tomorrow.”

And then Goody doesn't say a word the rest of the night. He speaks minimally the next morning and then only about where they're headed. It is discomfiting to say the least.

Billy takes to speaking more to make up for the silence. He tells Goody about the future he had imagined when he came to America – he wanted to be a butcher, have his own shop, be his own master. That was back when he thought there was a quasi-normal life waiting for him after the contract. He isn't that naive anymore. Goody tells him that there's still a chance he might see that future someday, but he only says it to be kind. In his present state, he can't pretend otherwise.

They set up camp as the sun sets. Still solemn as the grave, Goody sits and stares at nothing with hazy eyes. He jumps at the clattering of Billy accidentally dropping their cooking pot and various utensils on the ground. He quivers as they eat their dinner in silence.

Billy doesn't know what to do, so after they finish eating, he just tells Goody to sleep and promises to keep first watch. Goody may not need to sleep strictly speaking, but he looks so tired.

Billy watches Goody in repose and comes to the startling realization that even demons have nightmares. Goody tosses, turns, shudders, and writhes in torment for a minutes before settling down, at least temporarily. Billy leaves him be for now.

–

A noise startles Billy awake in the middle of the night. Unaware how he came to be asleep in the first place, he lurches into wakefulness and reaches for his knife belt next to him.

There is a rustling in the brush nearby, and Billy stands to face whatever danger might await him.

“Goody,” Billy says evenly. “Goody, wake up.”

The demon stumbles to his feet, bleary-eyed.

“What is it?” he grumbles.

Billy points a knife at the source of the noise.

A humanoid figure emerges, lithe and pale. A man, at least originally. He inches towards the two of them intently and bares a mouth full of pointed, rust red-covered teeth at them. The mirthless grin is a boast and a threat.

“Yes, I know what you are,” says Billy, trying his hardest to appear unimpressed.

“Billy, step back,” Goody commands, but the mortal man will not budge from his position in between Goody and the vampire.

He isn't sure if it can hurt Goody, but he won't leave that to chance. Goody is of no use to him dead.

Somehow, Billy has not prepared for the eventuality of encountering other kinds of monsters on their journey. He has no crucifix or garlic and honestly can't even remember if those are the ways you kill a vampire. There's a little bottle of holy water still in his pack he knows would be a good bet, but that's on the ground a few feet away.

Goody backs slowly towards Billy's things, as if sensing his thoughts.

“Careful,” Billy tells the vampire. “You will regret it. You should leave here.”

His words have exactly the opposite effect. The unholy creature lunges at Billy with a speed he's never seen before. It pins him to the ground even as Billy tries to slash at it wildly with his knife. Each bloodless wound he inflicts only serves to spur the thing on. Billy grabs it by the neck and tries to steer its mouth away from his own throat.

Goody kneels on the ground and reaches into Billy's bag for the holy water, forgetting himself and trying to grab it with his uncovered hand. Goody hisses and clutches at the burning skin of his palm. The bottle falls to the ground and shatters.

Billy shoves hard at the vampire's chest from underneath it, managing to push it off of him. It stumbles back and reels for a brief moment before launching itself towards Billy again. It knocks him to the ground, sets its knee on his back this time, and leans all its weight on top of him. Billy can feel its cold lips on the back of his neck, this bastard's way of taunting him. He shuts his eyes tight, bracing for the feeling of fangs piercing his skin.

Only he feels the weight lifted off of him all at once and hears the blood sucker let loose an unbearable shriek behind him.

A strong hand pulls him up. Billy turns to see a man, just as human as he is, dressed all in black. At his feet, the vampire lies with a wooden stake through its heart. The stranger removes the stake, wipes it off on his pant leg, and places it in a loop in his belt.

“Alright?” he asks Billy.

“Yes,” Billy says warily.

Still rubbing the skin of his hand, Goody stands and gapes at the newcomer.

The stranger looks over at him, grins smugly, and tips his hat.

“Goody,” he says.

“Sam,” Goody says.


	5. Sam and Goodnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is entirely in flashbacks. I wanted to get back to exclusively working in the present after this, so it took a while to write everything about Sam and Goody in the past that I wanted to write!

Night falls heavy on the town of Lawrence, Kansas. The respectable folks all retire to bed and the ensuing silence is a force unto itself. In the absence of the chatter and bustle of the townsfolk, Sam's ears are ringing. Been that way since he made the mistake of standing a bit to close to a mortar as it off fired during the war.

How long ago now? Only a year or so, still, he thinks.

How the time crawls.

Sam sets down in a rocking chair out on the porch of the boarding house he's staying in. Puts his legs up on the railing and hums a little tune to himself as he rocks back and forth. Half an hour ago the owner of the house, a pleasant woman, came out here worrying her head over him. Asked him if he wouldn't like some whiskey to help him get to sleep better.

He only chuckled good-naturedly and declined the offer, saying most men of his profession turn nocturnal for work. Can't turn it off even when there's nothing around to hunt. He used to be bothered by it, but he manages to find silver linings where he can.

The woman sits with him a while before saying, “I'll be turning in, but don't you hesitate to break into that whiskey, should you need it.”

Sam nods.

“And you'll be alright out here on your own?” she asks.

“Stars are looking mighty fine tonight, ma'am,” he answers obliquely.

“Glad you'n find peace in that, at least, Mr. Chisolm,” the landlady says warmly before leaving.

For a while, Sam hears nothing but the sound of his tinnitus and the odd bird hooting somewhere out of sight.

Then, of a sudden, he hears a yelp of pain from across the otherwise quiet town. The air shifts as Sam leans forward in the chair expectantly. He hears the noise again and stands up to follow it on instinct. His hand rests on the gun at his hip.

He runs through the list in his head as he moves intently. Wooden stake, silver bullets, salt and holy water, oil and matches, a knife of iron. A weapon for every beast, all where they should be on his person.

The sound leads Sam to the stables.

He spots two men standing over a figure hunched over in the corner, writhing in pain. And of course Sam can tell what it is. You don't get very far in his business if you can't spot a demon when you see one.

There's a taller of the two men, and he's the one clutching a crucifix, bearing down on the demon as it recoils from him. The damn fool is screaming Latin at it, and ain't that just overkill.

“You know,” says Sam, “just the cross is enough.”

The taller man looks over at him and scoffs.

“We have this well in hand, hunter.”

“Of course, of course.” Sam throws up his hands. “Begging your pardon. Only trying to help.”

The two men, now focused on him, have let up in their assault on the infernal being. It turns to face Sam with the face of a man thoroughly beat. A pathetic and pitiful sight, cowering on the ground, covered in dirt and loose hay.

“Well, we don't need your help,” says the shorter man.

Sam thinks a moment and makes a decision he may come to regret.

“No, no you don't. Only I'm inclined to ask... how were you planning on killing this creature?”

The two men look at each other, then back at Sam, brows furrowed at the question. The taller of them holds out his crucifix to show Sam as if it were obvious, but now the shorter man looks like he has doubts.

“All good and fine to corner the thing,” says Sam, “give it a good scare. Weaken it. I've heard 'em say it smarts just to see it. But... pardon me, you said you had this handled.”

He tips his hat and makes to leave.

“Wait,” says the shorter man, despite his companion's protests.

Sam stops.

“How would _you_ kill it?”

He turns around slow as anything.

“Well, only way to do it for sure's with an iron knife. Dip it in holy water or bless it. Stab the demon in the chest.” He reaches slowly for his own knife. “Happen to have one on me, if you'd like to do the honors.”

The shorter man gives the taller one a look. The taller man sighs, puts his crucifix away, and steps forward to accept the knife and a bottle of holy water when Sam offers them.

While the two men are preoccupied with dousing the weapon, the hunter looks at the demon and gives it a little nod.

The demon gives him a curious look in return, but seems to get his meaning. Silently, it erupts into flames and leaves behind nothing but the acrid scent of sulfur and a few puffs of smoke.

“And this'll do the trick?” the taller man asks.

“Every time,” says Sam, looking back at the two men.

The men are shocked to say the least when they turn to find their prey disappeared. Sam assures them that this is nothing out of the ordinary. He tells them sometimes even the sight of iron will send a demon running and that it's only fled to hell where it belongs. It should know better than to come back around here. If it'll help them rest easier, the hunter will search the town for it. But they should really retire for the night, they've done good work. The two men can't help but agree.

Sam walks the perimeter of the town cautiously, waiting to see if his hunch is correct.

He catches a flash of fire out of the corner of his eye and there's that scent of brimstone again. The demon reappears worse for wear a few yards away from him, cautious, but interested. The hunter removes his weapons and puts them on the ground in a show of non-hostility.

“Didn't think you'd get very far,” he says. “I'm Samson Chisolm. But Sam is fine.”

He extends a hand, which the demon takes.

“Goodnight Robicheaux. You may have heard the name.”

“May have heard, indeed,” says the hunter. “Thought you were a human, though.”

The demon laughs weakly before a faint spell seems to come over it, sending it stumbling backward and hitting the ground.

Sam walks leisurely to its side and props it up in a sitting position.

“Much obliged,” says Robicheaux.

“Good glamour you have there,” Sam says. “How'd they spot you?”

“Ah, well, they saw me fall off my horse, break my neck, and get back on up again. That'll generally give it away. They followed me into town, and you saw the rest.”

“You come here to collect on a bargain?” asks Sam.

The demon looks away.

“Well, did you?”

“You come here to kill a demon?” the thing retorts.

Sam chuckles darkly.

“We both do what we were made to do,” he says. “That's just the way of things. Won't fault you for it. But you step out of line, take a soul that don't belong to you by rights, then we got a problem.”

“You have a habit of granting mercy to abominations?”

“Only the handsome ones,” Sam deadpans.

The demon eyes him up and down with amusement.

“You have an awfully strange idea of what your profession entails.”

Sam shrugs, nods.

“But I am flattered you think I'm handsome,” the demon says.

“And _I_ was joking,” says Sam.

–

“You didn't have to follow me.”

“No, Mr. Chisolm,” says Robicheaux, “I did that of my own accord.”

Before Goodnight came into his life, Sam had just been starting to fear that his path was doomed to be a lonely one. Now he fears that he'll never get a second alone to himself. Goodnight follows him out into the plains as he moves out.

The first day or so, Sam imagines he wants the protection as he recovers from the attack back in town. After that, he starts to think that Goodnight was getting lonely, too.

–

“Now, Sam,” the demon says as they ride along side-by-side, “how on Earth did a man like _you_ get into this business?”

“A man like me?” Sam asks, warningly, tensing up.

“A merciful man,” Goodnight explains.

Sam relaxes a little.

“Well, I found I had a gift for spottin' trouble about to happen,” he says. “Just figured I could do some good with it. Did a little hunting before the war. Only made a career of it after.”

“You're sure you're not chasing after vengeance, Sam? That's how all the others are.”

“No, I never understood why folks go seeking revenge. Waste of time and breath better spent rebuilding.”

“Spoken like a man with nothing to avenge.”

–

It's been two weeks and Robicheaux is still following him.

Three weeks, still following him.

A month, it's getting old.

Two months, it's getting familiar.

They learn things about each other, almost like normal folks do. Sam learns that Goodnight eats human food. (“Of course, strictly speaking, I don't have to. Not yet; give it a few years.”)

Goodnight learns that Sam does not (and will not) carry a crucifix on him. A strange thing for a hunter, to be sure, but Goodnight is grateful for it. He wears _something_ on a chain around his neck but it's always hidden under his shirt.

Goodnight gossips about the denizens of Hades such that they seem so mundane now. Talks about “my friends Vassago and Agares” _et_ _cetera_ , _et cetera._ Dukes and princes of hell all. Sam chuckles to himself to think that he shares a mutual acquaintance with over half the subjects of the Lesser Key of Solomon.

Sam talks about his family back in Lincoln. He's homesick and he knows it shows in his face when he talks about when he was a kid, and all the trouble his whip smart, younger sisters got him into and then out of again. When he talks about the songs his mama taught him how to sing. About the treats she used to bake on special holy days. He talks about his papa, so big and strong and proud, who taught him never to diminish himself just to make other men less afraid. Talks about his whole family gathered around the table for dinner, saying blessings for the food.

Sam says he reckons he'll go home some day, but for now there's work needs doing.

He hunts. Goodnight collects souls. It's an odd arrangement, but they manage to do it side-by-side for a while.

They spend weeks at a time away from civilization, just the two of them with nothing but the stories they tell each other. Sometimes the same one gets told twice, but they care less about that than about speaking and listening to someone speak.

Sam's not sure he can remember when he and Goodnight started calling each other friends, but one day he catches himself referring to Goodnight that way to the man who's serving him his drink. My friend, Goodnight, and I are just passing through, he says.

He catches himself referring to Goodnight a lot, actually, whether he's there or not. Figures that's what he gets for only having one friend.

–

They settle into a routine.

Most nights, Sam goes out, hunts a monster. Goodnight goes out, collects a soul. They're both back at camp around the same time.

Sam has a drink and Goodnight stares at the campfire wistfully. Won't respond the first few times you try to talk to him.

“I said you don't like what you do,” Sam says after he gets Goodnight's attention.

“Not particularly,” Goodnight admits.

“Then quit,” says Sam. “I've seen others do it.”

“Would that it were so easy,” says Goodnight.

“Well, what's stopping you?”

Goodnight laughs joylessly.

“We aren't all of us as heroic as you are, Sam.”

–

Lord help him, but Sam has a dream about Goodnight one evening.

He's watching himself from a distance, sitting on the edge a bed in a rented room, the amalgamation of a dozen such rooms he's slept in over the last few years. He can pick out a few details from specific places, tries to remember what cities he was in when he saw them.

He reminds himself to focus, those things aren't as important as what Goodnight's doing. Crawling towards the version of himself that he's watching from afar, deft hands slowly removing his gun belt, disarming him in all senses of the word.

Sam can barely see the action from wherever it is he happens to be, but he gets the gist of it watching Goodnight's head bob up and down. Watching himself-but-not throw his head back and squeeze his eyes shut as if he can't believe how good it feels. Watching his own breathing become laborious. His hands are in the demon's hair, tugging and guiding ever so slightly.

He wishes he could feel it, too, he looks like he's enjoying it.

Sam wakes up just as he hears his dream-self crying out Goodnight's name. When he realizes where he is, he does have the brief worry that he really did call out. But if he did, then the demon doesn't acknowledge it, and doesn't turn away from the grimoire he's admiring.

Sam gets up and walks away as inconspicuously as possible to clean himself off and ponder why on Earth he should have had that dream specifically.

It's not the first time he's dreamt about a man like this. It _is_ the first time that man hasn't been human.

–

In the wake of the dream, Sam can't help but stare. Looks at Goodnight when they're settled down for the night, trying to be subtle about it. Watches Goodnight's lips when he's talking – makes an excuse about his hearing going when he gets caught doing that.

He doesn't catch Goodnight staring back, too, not at first.

–

Sam's been a hunter long enough that not every quarry of his is a struggle. But every once in a while, a creature'll get the drop on him.

This time, it's a pack of werewolves.

He doesn't usually hunt lycanthropes; often enough, they're just poor souls who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They don't wanna hurt nobody and all they need is a little guidance on how to avoid doing that. And Sam is more than willing to help them.

Sometimes, you'll get a group of cruel sons of bitches who got themselves turned on purpose. The ones who relish the thought of tearing innocent folks to bits. The ones who already had a bit of something monstrous in them already.

There's six of them, and five of them go down with a silver bullet to the heart after a very minor struggle. The last one puts up more of a fight. Sam misses the shot by a narrow margin, and the damn thing pounces on him, pins him down, knocks his gun away from his hand.

It ain't a full moon, but it's close enough that the man is much, much stronger than he is.

Teeth sink into his arm, Sam's mind goes to counting down if it's close enough to a full moon for the bite to have the power to turn him, but his calculations are cut off by a shot ringing out.

Sam smells sulfur on the air.

He pushes a dead werewolf off of him and stands up carefully.

“You were late coming back,” Goodnight says nonchalantly as Sam stares at him in disbelief.

He hands Sam his gun back. Their skin touches in the transfer. The demon's skin is feverishly hot, and Sam feels a tremor in Goodnight's hand. He looks down at it then up again.

“Thank you, Goody.”

Goody won't stop staring at Sam's bleeding arm.

–

The next time he sleeps, he wakes up to find Goody watching him. It becomes a common occurrence.

And Sam knows now that Goody notices him watching.

It's just a matter of time before one of them says something, but neither of them wants to seem needy. It's another game; that's what it always boils down to with demons.

–

One night, Goody makes new friends over a round of drinks. He convinces Sam to stick around.

He doesn't expect to, but he has fun. Goody brags about him and his exploits as he just throws up his hands, pretending to be embarrassed by the attention. He drinks just enough to feel his face get hot.

When the noise of the barroom becomes too much, even muffled by his dampened hearing, Sam excuses himself and retires to his room upstairs. Says something about being worn out, despite the fact that he hasn't fallen asleep before sunrise in years.

Goody bids him good evening with a suspicious nod.

When he gets upstairs, Sam just lays in bed for an hour or so, reading one of Goody's books by lantern-light. The noise from downstairs is enough to drown out the ringing, and for a while he's fine like this. He can focus on the words in front of him.

Then it all goes to shit. He hears Goody's too-loud laugh from the bar and wonders how, over the din of all the other rowdy patrons, Sam can pick out _that_ laugh in particular. Hears someone call out Goody's name and remembers how he called out Goody's name in his dream, and thinks, it happened in a room sort of like this.

And he doesn't stop the thought fast enough for the rest of the dream to come flooding back to him. And for his cock to decide this would be a fantastic time for an erection. For his part, Sam doesn't try to fight it, just thinks, _better get this over with_.

A knock at the door interrupts him with his hand already sliding down his pants, and what a fantastic night this is turning out to be. He tries to ignore the knock, pretend to be asleep.

“Sam?” Goody calls from the other side, the only person who isn't going to believe that tactic.

Sam extricates his hand from his pants and stands up, walking carefully over to the door.

“What is it, Goody?” he asks flatly without opening it.

“Just wanted to check on you,” says Goody.

“I'm fine,” says Sam.

“Wanted to see if you were alright.”

“I am.”

“Alright.”

“Well, good night.”

“Yes?”

That one again. It stopped being funny the seventeenth time.

“No, Goody, I'm wishing you a good night.”

He can practically hear the smirk on Goody's face.

“Of course. You, too, Sam.”

He hears Goody laugh but no footsteps leading away.

Alright, thinks Sam, swallowing the lump in his throat. Let's see where this one goes.

He opens the door, looks at Goody. Goody looks at him.

“Oh,” he says, trying not to smile. “Well, I'll leave you to it.”

“Come in, Goody,” says Sam.

He does so immediately.

Sam shuts the door behind him.

“Would you-?” Goody begins to ask, but Sam is already pulling him in by the shoulders roughly, bringing him closer until their noses are touching. Sam thinks of kissing him right there, but waits a moment.

“This what you came for?” he asks.

“A variation on it,” says Goody elatedly. “I thought it might have to be the other way around.”

“It alright this way?”

“Oh, this is even better, Sam.”

Sam leans in and presses his lips against Goody's. He feels the demon's already warm skin spike hotter as he readjusts, removing a hand from his shoulder and sliding it along Goody's thigh. Goody sighs dreamily as Sam trails kisses across Goody's cheek to his ear, then down his neck, to the hollow of his throat.

The demon actually whines when he stops.

“Why don't you go get undressed and lay down,” says Sam, pulling back.

Goody obeys, practically throwing his coat off, nearly ripping his shirt open as he can't get the buttons open fast enough. He fumbles with his trousers, swearing all the while.

Sam starts to disrobe as well, albeit less frantically. He takes off the chain around his neck without letting Goody see what's on it and tucks it away in his pile of clothes.

Goody makes sure that he's lying down before Sam is done undressing. He almost vibrates with anticipation as he watches the hunter sit himself in front of him.

“Do you have any-?” Sam starts to ask.

Goody reaches over to the nightstand he'd tossed his coat on, grabs a small bottle of olive oil from the pocket and hands it to Sam who admires it closely.

“You make this with one of your magic tricks?”

“Miracles,” corrects Goody. “It doesn't take a messiah to do them.”

Sam doesn't look at him as he covers the fingers of one hand in the oil.

“I don't take your meaning,” he says as he works.

Goody gives him a strange look. “You know, turning water into w-wine-.” The word gets caught in his throat, mixed with a moan, and followed by a cry of, “ _Samson Chisolm!_ ”

Quite rudely, Sam has interrupted him by sticking a slicked-up finger up his tight ass without warning. He knows they ought to keep quiet, but the sharp cry of his name only spurs Sam on, curling his finger the way he would with a human man. It does seem to have the same effect, pushing a little gasp of delight out of Goody's mouth.

“How are we feeling, Goody?”

“Just grand,” Goody breathes.

Sam keeps working him open with the one finger. Then, as Goody gets impatient, he adds another. He uses his other hand to spread Goody's cheeks open and takes the time to savor the way that Goody's skin is burning up and he's already shaking beneath him. Sam only adds a third finger when Goody starts to beg for more in a crescendo of “yes, Sam, please” and assorted dirty words in English, French, and – what he has to assume is – the Infernal Tongue.

Sam isn't surprised to learn that Goody's mouthy even during sex. It isn't unpleasant. Seeing this powerful creature moaning beneath him, panting like a bitch in heat, it lights a fire in his belly. But even with the noise from downstairs still going on, he's got his concerns about being discovered like this.

“Careful, now,” he says.

“No one will hear,” whimpers the demon.

Goody's cock is rock hard, flush against his belly, already dripping. Sam knows he's getting close and there's no need to draw it out anymore. He removes his fingers to the sound of Goody sighing exasperatedly, rolls his eyes while he rubs some of the olive oil on his cock.

“You ready?”

“Just go on, Sam.”

He doesn't waste any time sliding himself inside of Goody, who lets out a little hysterical laugh at the pressure. Sam releases a garbled cry of Goody's name. It's a bit embarrassing, but it's been so long for both of them.

“Go on, Sam, go on,” Goody says again through heavy breaths.

Sam begins to thrust, placing his still slippery hand on Goody's cock and stroking it up and down in time with his movements. Goody arches his back and tosses his head to one side, all too much. Sam lifts one of Goody's legs over his shoulder, trying to get at just the right angle.

He doesn't last too long after Goody starts to chatter at him, saying his name over and over, begging for him to go harder and faster, telling him how good he feels. How strong he is, how handsome.

Sam spills into Goody with a breathy _damn._ He falters for a second in working Goody with his hand, but finds that Goody is more than happy to finish the job himself.

As the demon comes across his own stomach and chest, he only carries on with his praises of Sam.

“Look at you,” he babbles, shaking his head. “Lord, Sam, just look at you.”

A beat.

The two men break into a fit of exhausted laughter. Sam pulls out of Goody and collapses on top of him, trying to catch his breath again.

After a moment, Goody gets up and finds a bit of cloth to wipe the both of them off with.

He gets dressed again and goes to leave, but Sam calls him back to bed.

Goody complies.

“Cold without you,” Sam says unashamedly.

–

Sam falls asleep while it's still dark for the first time in years. When he wakes up in the morning, he's a little surprised to see the sun still so low in the sky. Goody is reading beside him.

“Awake finally?” he asks.

Sam just laughs and shakes his head, moving to get dressed. Goody peers at him over the top of his book, watching him button up his shirt and clasp his chain back around his neck.

“Hold on,” says Goody. “Let me see that.”

Sam stops, looks over at Goody curiously. Hesitant, he holds up the pendant for him to see – a six-pointed star.

Goody huffs.

“So that's why you didn't appreciate my messiah joke.”

–

Nothing much changes to their routine aside from the addition of the sex they're having.

Telling stories around a campfire after coming back from a night's work just turns into telling stories by the campfire before fucking like rabbits and laying next to each other listening to the sounds of animals scurrying across the plains.

It all feels very familiar.

Goody doesn't shake so much lying next to Sam anymore.

It can't last forever. Sam knows that it can't. Goody's kind always get bored of mortals somehow, even the interesting ones like Sam.

Goody doesn't think it can last, either. It didn't every time before now. That's fine, he tells himself. He wouldn't deserve it even if it could. And anyway, they need different things. Goody isn't going to stop collecting any time soon. Sam wants to go home, and Goody can't go with him.

It's only a matter of time now.

–

Sam is going home. He's heard word that his father is sick, and it doesn't look good. Should the worst happen, he wants to be there to say goodbye. And Goody knows, should that happen, he'll decide to stay to take care of his mother and unmarried sisters.

He asks Goody to go with him, just to visit. He accepts the invitation, even while he knows it'll only make it harder to say goodbye.

Sam introduces him as a colleague. Sam's mother, Miriam, welcomes him with open arms. Sam's sisters love him. They tell him all about the games they'd play when they were growing up. They all trade embarrassing stories about Sam.

Sam's father doesn't acknowledge him much at all. He's bed-bound from the moment Goody meets him. He doesn't or can't talk much, and when he does it's meant for family. Which, despite Miriam and the girls' hospitality, does not include Goody.

Sam doesn't cry too much when his father passes, mostly from sheer will. He throws himself into his mother's traditions. After the funeral, he sits nearer to the floor for seven days and wears a torn shirt. Gathers with a group of ten men and says the prayers you're supposed to say when a parent dies.

Goody stays longer than he says he will. “I'll leave tomorrow” turns into “next week” turns into “before winter's out.” He sticks around to help with chores around the house and the farm. He lives like a human for as long as he can. He tries for Sam, really. But it's just not going to work.

He becomes a familiar enough presence around the house, that his sudden disappearance is felt by all. Goody explains to Sam that there's a contract he's meant to collect on out in Utah Territory. He doesn't make any promises about coming back after he's finished.

That's about as much as Sam had expected.

–

His old life melts away over the next year.

He may have been a great hunter, but farming suits him just fine, too. He sleeps better than he ever did on the road, to be sure. Others of his profession may have felt the itch to get back out there, but Sam is an odd duck. Doesn't believe there's any sense in wanting to be anywhere but where you are.

He's got his family, his farm, and his life here in Kansas. He doesn't need anything else. And if he never feels the thrill of the hunt ever again, that's just fine with him.

He thinks he'll stay right where he is.

A warlock by the name of Bartholomew Bogue has other ideas.

–

Goody visits him again after it all goes wrong.

He's on the road again, has nowhere else to be.

Terse greetings are followed by sitting in silence in front of a campfire.

Goody asks him, carefully, after an hour, “What do you think of revenge now, Sam?”

Sam tells him to leave.

 


	6. Tensions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a rough week, so I'm splitting what was going to be chapter 6 into 6 and 7, and this one will be a little short. Apologies!

“Goody.”

“Sam.”

Billy has never heard so much in two words before; there are unspoken years hiding in the spaces between the sounds. And there's a heat in the air that is no doubt radiating outward from the demon among them.

Goody and Sam stand yards away from each other as if repelled by an invisible force. A (twice) dead vampire still lies on the ground between them.

Goody's passion for speech-craft has never failed him more than in this moment, when all that he can think to say is the obvious.

“Been a while,” he says.

“Has it?” asks Sam, still smiling. Then adds, “Glad to see you again, Goody.”

Sam's face is soft, warm in a way that Goody obviously isn't expecting.

“Likewise, Sam.”

Sam glances down at the vampire's body.

“We ought to get out of here. And then maybe you can introduce me to your associate.”

–

And so they make to leave without much fanfare or forethought as to where they're headed. Or much explanation for Billy's benefit as to why they're leaving together. For good measure, Sam burns the body of the vampire. Billy wrinkles his nose at the smell; there's been a lot of immolation in his life recently and he can't say he cares for it.

They pack up and move camp well enough away that Sam is unconcerned with the threat of retaliation from any other vampires in the area. The walk is silent, mostly. But there are still things being communicated if Billy looks closely. The way Goody's shoulders are tensed up, his hands clenching and unclenching. How Sam is looking back too frequently at Goody to check on him just like Billy has caught himself doing before.

Conversation picks up more easily than he expected once they're stationary again. Goody introduces Billy and that topic seems to give him something to focus on that is neither the violence of the day nor the unexpected arrival of Complication embodied in the human form.

“Billy is quite the demon slayer,” says Goody. “ _Handily_ killed two of my kind before I came into the picture. If he ever went into your business, why, I'm sure you could hear devils and imps quaking in their boots all across the country at the name Billy Rocks.”

“That so?” asks Sam, looking to Billy.

Billy takes a moment to think.

“They didn't send their best,” he says with faux humility.

This causes Goody to erupt in howling, nervous laughter, of a kind he'd not be disposed to were it just them. Billy gives him a strange look, but Goody willfully ignores it.

“He really ought to have been a hunter,” says Goody. “But he makes his money honest either way.”

“Honest money, Goody, with you?” Sam laughs, but there's no bite to it. “And just how do you make a living, Mr. Rocks?”

“By being a faster draw than white men.”

That warrants a chuckle from Sam and another round of raucous laughter from Goody, which makes Sam laugh even more. Even Billy has to admit, it's amusing seeing Goody like this.

“Sam, I'm bound to wonder, what _are_ you doing so far out west?” asks Goody.

“Tracking one of your kind actually. Been crawling his way toward California these past few months. Makin' busy all the way.”

Goody shakes his head.

“Show me a land promising gold-paved streets, flowing with milk and honey,” he says, “and I'll show you a land filled to the brim with thralls and demons. Same old story.”

“I s'pose it ain't nothin' out of the ordinary,” Sam says, nodding slowly. “But _this_ one's been takin' souls without contracts. And I don't take kindly to rule-breakers.”

Goody merely nods and in that subtle way, shifts the conversation away from the subject of his own kind. After that, the topic hardly strays from Billy, which the man finds unsurprising – it's a common method of deflection that Billy is very used to by now. But he doesn't allow it to continue; at this exact moment, he really doesn't need to be a part of this game. He removes himself from the conversation, making an excuse about answering the call of nature.

Then Sam and Goody are alone together for the first time in years. To his credit, Goody takes the hint from Billy's departure and doesn't squander the opportunity to settle some things. After some small talk about how agreeable the weather has been lately.

“You seem awful happy to see me,” he says, nervously, once that well has run dry. “Considering the outcome of our last meeting.”

“I've had an awful lot of time to think,” says Sam.

“You think about me much?” Goody asks for his ego and peace of mind both.

“Some.” A pause. “A healthy amount. Don't go gettin' a big head about it.”

Sam picks up a long stick from the ground and readjusts the wood on the fire. Goody stares into the middle-distance. Some kind of insect is making a whole lot of ruckus not too far away and its grating on his nerves ever so slightly, making it hard to focus.

“You still collecting?” Sam asks, more of a husky whisper than he meant.

He can't look at Goody as he asks, “Is Billy your-?”

“No. He ain't.” Goody says firmly.

He reaches for the flask he keeps in his coat pocket, finds it empty, and heaves a dramatic sigh.

“Good to hear,” says Sam.

“I quit, Sam. Like you told me I ought to. I know I should have done it years ago. But, well, there it is.”

Sam takes in a breath and nods.

“Well, Goody, that's-.” He sighs. “That's a damn good thing.”

Billy comes back after a long while. Goody fusses over him for a moment, asking him what took so long and if he ran into any trouble. Billy brushes him off gently. Sam watches the scene with no small amount of amusement.

The talking dies out not too long after Billy's return. Billy lies down to sleep and Sam and Goody are wary of waking him with their chatter, so Sam tells Goody to get some rest as well. He'll watch out for trouble tonight and they'll talk more in the morning.

Reluctantly, Goody agrees. He falls asleep with the sounds of Sam softly humming in the background.

–

When Billy wakes, Sam is off somewhere and Goody is tossing and turning in his sleep as if afflicted. Putting aside questions of “why” regarding either of these circumstances, Billy kneels down besides Goody and nudges him awake. When he does, the demon just about leaps out of his own skin, crawling stumblingly away from him.

Billy raises his hands in the air in a show of non-aggression.

“It's me, Goody,” he says. “Are you alright?”

“Of course, yes. I was only startled, is all. I'm fine.”

Billy looks at Goody in disbelief, wondering if he ought to say something. If there's a question he's meant to be asking.

“You were having a nightmare,” he says.

Goody has the gall to laugh.

“That sounds like a very human thing to have.”

And that's final, apparently. Billy doesn't respond and Goody pretends like the conversation didn't happen. But Billy keeps an eye on Goody as the demon sets about packing up the camp again for the third time in the past twenty four hours. He doesn't ask Billy to help, just does the busy-work himself to keep his mind off of whatever's occupying it that he won't tell a soul about. Maybe it's better that way; Billy's honestly not sure what he'd say if he knew the truth. He's been told “it'll be okay” enough to know that the empty platitudes tend to make it worse.

Sam returns not long after with both their canteens full of water, handing Billy and Goody's back to them.

“I'll be heading out soon. Work to do and such. Makin' for a town called Scrub Oak Point. Got a hint that's where my demon's headed.”

“Of course, of course,” says Goody to a point on the ground a few feet away.

“So, I suppose this is farewell for now,” says Sam to the sky behind him.

Neither of them make to move. Billy is dead tired of the loaded silence.

“Perhaps,” he starts to say, and both Goody and Sam turn to look at him in the same moment. “Perhaps, we could come with you.”

“Oh?” they both manage to say.

“Not for long. But I could help you with the hunting,” Billy says to Sam, then looks to Goody, “And we can do our business anywhere.”

“Well, Mr. Rocks, that'd be mighty helpful to me. That is, if you'd be keen, Goody.”

“How many live in Scrub Oak Point?” Goody asks.

“There'll be enough folks for you to swindle out of their hard-earned cash.”

Goody smiles that devil's smile.

“Then I don't see why we couldn't stick together a mite longer.”

–

And so it's decided. It's a half a day ride into town with them making good time. Sam locates some rooms for them to rent. They've money enough to each have separate rooms, and despite Billy's qualms about unnecessary expenses, Goody insists on his own space. Probably his way of telling Billy he's been too nosy.

A very exhausted Sam turns in after a long night and day of travel, and the other two set about their routine as per usual. Despite the shake-up in their destination, the order of the day for Billy and Goody remains finding a suitable challenger for their enterprise. This typically requires a stroll about town, during which Goody gets to be his usual, charming self. Drawing people out of their shells and enticing them either to participate in or feast their eyes upon the proceedings later that day. Today, Goody is as gregarious as ever, but there's an edge to his interactions.

Billy has to pull him aside after a particularly tense conversation with a local.

“What's the matter, Billy?” Goody asks with audible frustration, though his face tries to convey sincerity. His eyebrows get confused and land somewhere in the middle of furious and concerned.

“You're acting strange.”

“ _Actually_ , I'm not.”

“Alright,” says Billy. “What did that man do to you?”

Goody drops the ridiculous expression on his face in favor of a look of genuine confusion.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“That one.” Billy points back at the crowd of townsfolk. “Whose head you wanted to rip off.”

“I was nothing but kind and civil.”

“Not what I saw.”

Goody sighs and places his hands on his hips. Readjusts his hat on his head. Kicks at the dirt a bit before looking up at Billy.

Cryptically, he says, “It's a strange thing watching your old life and your new one collide.”

“You mean Sam?” Billy asks. For Goody's benefit, he lowers his voice to add, “The dreams?”

“All of it.” Goody shakes his head. “And as glad as I am that he's here, it's all very unsettling.”

Billy's judgment earlier was right. He doesn't know what to say to Goody to make it all less overwhelming for him. But maybe there isn't a right answer to that question. Billy knows it doesn't fall to him to figure out how to make this better for Goody, but he'll try if it means less thinly-veiled hostility directed at innocent bystanders. If it means less tossing and turning in the middle of the night and Goody trusting him enough to talk to him for once instead of leaving him in the lurch.

“The colliding,” Billy says. “What are you worried will happen?”

No response for a moment, then, “The same damn thing that happened last time.”

“Goody, I don't know what that means.”

The look on Goody's face shifts to something that says _just as it should be_.

“That's enough for now, Billy. We have work to do.”

 


	7. Scrub Oak Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a hot mess right now, so this took forever. I'm hoping things progress more quickly now that I have an idea where this is going.

When night falls, Billy and Sam head out into the town to hunt. Goody stays behind to sit at the bar and drink alone, making some excuse about being wary of giving the two of them away. 

As he walks out the door, Billy looks back catches a glimpse of Goody with his head in his hands. He tries not to think about it too much. There's work ahead of them.

The task before them is daunting. Find a demon, who will be in disguise, with very little information to go on as to his whereabouts, without much training under his belt aside from what he's had to learn to survive. Billy doesn't find it frightening, particularly, but it presents a logistical quandry; there's a lot of ground to cover in Scrub Oak Point. 

Most places Billy and Goody visit could only be called a town if you're being very charitable; they'll be a main road with a few businesses, and a few homes spread out among the surrounding plains, hills, or miscellaneous geography. Scrub Oak Point has at least three streets with all manner of establishments scattered around. A lot of town to walk when you all you can do is listen for anything out of the ordinary, trying to smell that giveaway scent of burning sulfur.

It's unseasonably warm for an autumn night – hot and humid. The sky is clear and Billy feels as though Heaven is watching them, either in support of their venture or tense anticipation. Eunhasu, the Silver River, is shining bright. In English they have a different name for it. Goody was telling him once, it's something about milk? (Maybe he's only thinking about milk because Scrub Oak Point smells like cows every second of the day.)

“Now the demon we're looking for is a tricky one,” says Sam as they set off down the street. “He's a creature of a hundred faces – a shapeshifter.”

Sam and Billy stop and tip their hats at a man who walks by, eyeing them carefully when he hears the word "shapeshifter." As he passes, they resume their course.

“I saw a demon like that in a dream,” Billy says.

"Did you, now?" There's a distinct look of worry on Sam's face when he says that. Billy tries not to mind it.

"Among others."

"His name is Vassago," Sam says. "Hold onto that. Callin' 'em out don't always work, of course, but it's worth a try. Makes 'em give you a real stupid look anyhow, they're never expecting it.”

Somehow, Billy had thought that the hunt would be more thrilling than this. He thought he'd be sprinting in pursuit of an abomination, grappling on the ground, fighting with life and death on the line. The way it'd been with the vampire. Of course, Billy has more experience being hunted than hunting, so maybe that colors his expectations slightly.

The city is quiet, but it's not even a tense quiet. It's just a lazy, tired quiet, and signs of life still abound around them. Crickets, birds, faint sounds of drunken singing from an indeterminable direction. He hears and sees and feels the many mosquito residents of Scrub Oak Point. The hunter beside him is not bitten once. Sam makes a joke about Billy having sweet blood, and a disturbing observation that this is probably what lead to his vampire encounter.

Still no sign of their demon.

"How will we recognize him?" Billy asks.

"He has a few favorite faces," says Sam. "Any case, I'll know him when I see him."

They stop as they round a corner and hear a sound that turns out to be a false alarm. Sam takes the moment to check and re-check all of his equipment. 

Billy shoos away yet another mosquito before continuing on.

"Most people can't tell them apart from mortals," he says. "How can you?"

"There's a feeling everyone gets around demons," starts Sam. "The 'you can give me anything I want' kind of feeling. It's why people are drawn to them. Probably why you went with Goody." 

Billy's body turns traitor and he goes a little red in the face. Sam puts up his hands.

"Nothin' to be ashamed of, son," the hunter says sincerely. "It's hard enough to tell it's happening at all, so most folks can't put their finger on why it does. I just trained myself to notice. Wasn't so hard once I did. As a rule, I've always been wary of unspoken promises."

"So, you're a good hunter... because you don't trust anyone."

That earns Billy a laugh.

"S'pose so," says Sam.

The night crawls on slowly. Conversation screeches to a halt after a number of false starts. Giving up on chatting would be easier, but they keep at it in a desperate bid to pass the time. Most people fall short of Goody's loquaciousness, and Sam is no exception. There are few topics he will say a thing or two about, and they seem to be all the subjects Billy has nothing to contribute to. Not that Billy is an expert conversationalist either, but the long stretches of quiet don't help him at all trying to stay awake.

The lack of action and Billy's sleep-deprived state combine in that dangerous way which makes it hard for him to keep his eyes open. The hunt feels like less of a hunt and more of a patrol. Billy can hear Goody's voice in his head saying "patience is a virtue." It isn't as if he doesn't know that; he just doesn't have the time to be that brand of virtuous.

He's about to ask Sam how they're meant to find their quarry when, as if on cue, a sound not unlike a gunshot rips through the silence. He catches a cloud of smoke rolling out of the second-story window of a house down the way and the scent of hell that is meant to accompany a demon's entrance onto this plane of existence. And at the same moment, there is a shout from the bar. Goody with his head in his hands flashes across Billy's mind.

He stands frozen, glancing back and forth between the smoke cloud and the scream.

"I get Vassago, you get Goody," Sam says.

Billy nods and takes off running. Navigtating the streets of an unfamiliar town – at night, alone, and being as tired as he is – would usually be a problem for him, but he remembers exactly the direction that Goody's yell came from and as he makes for that direction, nothing can stand in his way.

He bursts into the barroom of the building they're staying in. A quick glance around the room shows only a few tired, unresponsive drunks. The barkeep wordlessly points him upstairs as if to say 'you had better go deal with that one.'

When Billy arrives at Goody's room, the door is locked and he hears choked sobs from behind it. Knocking doesn't reward him with a response. Without thinking much of the consequences, he slams the weight of his body into it three times before the door swings open for him. He'll have more than a few bruises for his troubles tomorrow.

His sudden appearance startles an already distraught Goody, who is laying on the bed with red, wet eyes. Billy blinks and Goody has willed his tears gone, the swollenness of his eyes entirely abated.

"Billy," he says, calm as can be, "what on Earth is happening?"

"Our demon has arrived."

Goody twitches almost imperceptibly. He catches himself doing it and tries to play it off to no success. Instead, he tries to act non-chalant by picking up a book beside him and flipping through it.

"Well, then, shouldn't you be with Sam?" he asks, not looking at Billy.

"I heard you cry out," says Billy flatly.

"Did you?" Goody asks. "That's odd."

Billy closes the broken door behind him as best as he can. He approaches his demon, carefully and slowly. He thinks maybe if mortals respond to physical touch when they're upset, then demons with mortal tendencies do as well. He holds off for the moment. 

In any case, Goody allows Billy to sit next to him on the bed as he flips through page after page. He isn't looking at them long enough to actually be reading.

After a long moment of Billy staring at him, Goody stops pretending and sets the book down.

Billy looks at Goody's hands, quivering despite the demon's best efforts. He wonders if he held them, or even just touched them lightly, would that be crossing a line, or would that be a comfort? He doesn't know so he doesn't do it. He bet it would feel ridiculous anyway.

“It's alright to be afraid,” Billy says, quiet like there's anyone other than Goody around to overhear. "There's no shame in it."

Goody shakes his head gently, laughs a bit, not enough fight in him to make it convincing.

“I have told you again and again, Billy. I'm alright.”

“I saw you crying."

Goody gives Billy a moment of eye contact that he won't let go to waste. He throws Goody a look of warning not to test him today. To his credit, Goody takes him seriously enough and wipes the smile off his face.

"Tell me what you're afraid of,” Billy says.

Goody sighs, standing up from the bed and walking to the broken door which has begun to slowly swing open again. He places a hand on it and the lock begins to mend itself. Now that's just a prime example of who Goodnight Robicheaux really is – absent-mindedly performing miracles to distract himself from his troubles.

“Why are you so obsessed with the idea that I'm afraid?” the demon asks.

"It's obvious you are. Do you take me for a fool?"

"No, I-." Goody shakes his head and declines to dignify the loaded question with any further response.

“Tell me what you're afraid of,” Billy says again, firmly, “so I can protect you from it.”

"You can't. And it doesn't concern you."

"Of course, it does, Goody; we're business partners," Billy says. "My life depends on yours. Tell me what's wrong."

Billy can't help but let his frustration bubble over; he raises his voice without really meaning to and regrets it immediately. For a few tense moments, only the sounds of Goody's labored breathing keep them from falling into complete silence.

"Or did you lie to me?" Billy asks, softer now.

Goody's brow furrows in confusion, puts up a front of innocence as if he's never even heard of lying, let alone done it himself. As if he hasn't lied to Billy a thousand times and more. Granted he is confused – it's just that this time, he's got no clue which of the lies Billy is referring to.

"I went with you on the promise that this life would be easier," says Billy. "What you're doing – hiding things from me – this is not easier. "

"I meant for it to be," says Goody sincerely.

"Then you tell me what's wrong. And we fix it. Whatever it is. And things go back to normal."

It isn't as easy as that, Goody wants to say to him. There's a cost to everything and he should know that by now. Just because he got away without paying once, doesn't mean it won't come back around to him. That he won't have to pay it back in some other way.

But he sounds so certain. In this moment, Goody can't help but confide in him.

"I'm afraid... they'll come to take me back if they know I'm here."

Billy doesn't know if that's a rational fear or if Goody's just paranoid. He isn't familiar enough with how demonic internal politics work. From what Goody has told him, the others have deserted went on to lead perfectly normal lives, why should he be any different?

"You mean Vassago?" Billy asks.

"Yes." A pause, then a lowering of his voice. "And others. I felt him when he arrived. He could have sensed my presence."

"Then why did you agree to come along with Sam?" Billy asks. 

"I thought you wanted to."

"I thought you wanted more time with Sam. You could have told me 'no.'"

"If I had known who it was he was after-." Goody trails off. 

Billy nods, breathes in and makes a decision and a promise.

"Then we'll leave," he says. "And if the demon follows us, I'll kill him. Like I killed the others. Easy."

"He isn't like the others," Goody says.

"Maybe not. But he will die like them."

Goody can almost believe that.

–

Sam returns a short while later, coming to Goody's room to check in. A bit dismayed, he relays the story of how he confronted the demon in the act and frighted him away. Says he managed to save a poor, young woman from a life of servitude, but Vassago would be back at his game soon enough.

Sam says they'll talk in the morning about which direction they're headed. Billy lets him know that whichever way Sam trails the demon, he and Goody will need to go the opposite direction. And despite his dismayed expression, the hunter agrees that's probably for the best.

For tonight, there is nothing to be done. That doesn't assuage any of Goody's fears, but both men sit down in one of two wooden chairs in the room, and Billy promises that he and Sam will keep watch as Goody rests. 

At least, that's what he means to happen. Five minutes later, Billy is fast asleep, and Sam is left alone to guard the room. He doesn't mind and he doesn't fault Billy for it, just chuckles to himself a bit.

–

Goody wakes again in the early hours of the morning and takes stock of his surroundings. 

Billy is still asleep, looking a bit uncomfortable in his current position, and stirring a bit as if upset. But he's dead tired enough that he'll sleep through it. Sam is whittling down a wooden stake in the other chair. He glances up at Goody.

"Hungry?" he asks.

"I could eat a horse."

"Rather you didn't. Take this instead."

Sam tosses him some hardtack, which Goody eats with no small amount of complaining, but thanks Sam all the same for it. 

Goody gets more tired, more often than he did all those years ago. He's becoming more like a man every day, but his body still doesn't know how to sleep as efficiently as a human's does. It's learning what mortals are born knowing. That must be a real kick in the teeth on top of it all. 

It's a process that he knew was happening even when he met Goody. This is just how it goes for demons who stay on Earth too long. A slow progression of getting more and more exhausted every day until your body figures out how this rest thing works. And it's harder for Goody than the others Sam's met.

Sam sees Goody's eyes wander back over to Billy asleep in the chair. 

"He's having a hell of a dream, looks like," says Sam, either not recognizing or acknowledging the irony of his choice of words. "Something you have in common."

"Poor man," the demon says quietly.

A wave of his hand lifts Billy out of the chair. Unyoked from the oppressive pull of gravity, the man floats through the air, still dead asleep, and falls gently into the bed that Goody is now vacating.

Goody walks over to the empty chair and sits down beside Sam.

Sam tries to read Goody's expression and finds himself coming up short.

"He told me he had a dream about Vassago," says Sam.

Goody nods. "He's been having dreams about all of them."

"What did you tell him?"

"That the dreams were meant for me." Then he adds, before Sam can accuse him of lying, "Which is the truth, even if it's not the whole of it."

Lord, Sam thinks, he's forgotten Goody actually believes that's any better than a flat-out lie. He takes a deep breath and exhales out through his nose. 

He says, a bit exasperated, "He should know where he goes when he has those dreams."

"I promise you, Sam, I will tell him." Goody shrugs. "Eventually."

Sam shakes his head, but decides he will allow Goody time to figure out how best to explain. He adjusts his seat on the chair, trying to get comfortable again.

"I have a question for you, Goody," he says.

"Yes, Sam?"

The hunter pauses, considers his words carefully before proceeding. 

"Why him?" he asks.

"Beggin' your pardon," says Goody, "but you'll have to elaborate."

"How many years you were collecting contracts, wringing your hands over the unholy work you were doing and how you oughta quit, and now this man-." He tilts his head at Billy. "-walks into your life and you drop everything? To become a common criminal and a charlatan?"

Goody sighs.

"I'm sorry, Sam. I know it's too little, too late." He pauses and concedes, "Should have left when you told me to."

"No, Goody, that's not what I mean." 

Sam didn't think his bitterness was that obvious, but then he's forgotten how well Goody knows him.

"I'm only saying-." He pauses, switches directions. "I can see you care for him."

Goody grumbles something in protest, and Sam stares him down.

"Yes, I've come to care for him," Goody admits. "But that's not why I quit."

"Of course. You were scared he'd kill you," says Sam.

"Naturally. Well... that's a little bit of it."

"And you saw something in him."

"Audacity," says Goody immediately. "Not a lot of men quite like him. He's made an art form of breaking the rules."

By the time he introduced himself in that saloon, he'd been watching Billy for a while. He's told him by now, of course. It felt a little dishonest not to admit that he'd been trailing the man. It was extraordinary, watching him tear through town after town, fighting tooth and nail to keep everything he had. Running like there were hounds at his heels. And there were plenty things chasing him, of course – demons and men both, after he got into some trouble with the law – just none of them were dogs. Well, some of the men were as good as. 

Goody sinks back into his chair. As much as the man could fend for himself, he'd wanted to offer Billy protection from demons and his fellow mortals alike. Was he really doing so poorly at it? 

His mind snags on that thought and he's stuck there.

As he watches Goody drifting off, Sam tries to offer his old friend a smile to show that he's not jealous when he asks, "So how long'd it take you to get sweet on him?"

"I'm not-." 

Goody's objection is cut short. His eyes widen as Billy tosses and turns a little, but he settles down and it's obvious that the man is still caught in a deep slumber.

"I'm not sweet on him," Goody insists, as firmly as he can while still whispering.

"Don't try to lie to me, Goody. You wanted him to see you weren't afraid. And you should hear the way you talk about him."

"Nothing's going to happen with us," Goody says. He's nearly pouting.

"Wonder how you're so sure of that."

"He only came with me because it was a more agreeable arrangement for him than sleeping with one eye open."

"Maybe you need to do something for him. To show him how you feel."

Goody throws up his hands.

"I already do things for him. The gifts I give him-."

"Ain't been working? Some humans can be won over with shiny trinkets, but not all. He's not some pet of yours to be doted on."

"I know he's not."

Sam nods, maybe that was unfair of him.

"What does he really want?" he asks.

Goody knows, without having to think at all. The puzzle pieces missing from Billy's past. His name. Both currently sitting on a shelf somewhere in hell, probably. It could easily be retrieved if Goody had a mind to do so, but not without consequences. And it's been a while since he's done anything so bold.

"I don't know," Goody says after a long pause.

"Really? It looked like you'd thought of something."

"The thing he wants, Sam, I can't get him. It's too risky."

If he did do it, that'd be a step for sure. Not just towards earning Billy's trust, but perhaps towards some kind of redemption. If such a thing were possible for him at all. Most honestly, the look on Billy's face alone would be worth it.

But it'd seal his fate. 

If Andras isn't already after him, he would definitely be then. What's worse, the others would all have cause to come calling, too, if they wanted. He'd be more than a deserter, he'd be interfering in another demon's contract. A traitor of the worst kind.

"But if I did-," he says anyway. "Maybe there's a different way to-."

Billy stirs again and Goody cuts himself off.

"Nevermind it now," Sam says softly. "Go back to sleep."

The demon smiles weakly to himself and obeys.

–

Billy is in the desert again and he's getting tired of this dream. There is no parade this time, just the one demon. The solitary abomination riding astride his wolf companion. The beady-eyed, owl-faced one with angel's wings and his sword glinting in the sun. The one who always looks like he's out for blood and he wouldn't be opposed to it being Billy's.

It speaks to him this time, a booming voice issuing forth seemingly from nowhere.

“This message is not for you," it says, "but you will carry it to its destination.”

“I don't serve you, demon,” Billy says.

He hears his own voice reply, muffled as if through ears full of water. He is barely aware of being the one to speak. He struggles to stay aware of his surroundings but something like a thick fog has descended on his mind. Somewhere behind him, the sounds of hundreds of souls crying out rises, getting closer and closer. Sweat trickles down his forehead. But he stares down the abomination like it's some mortal man engaged in an arm wrestling match with him. Pretends to himself that he doesn't know what these creatures are capable of.

The demon shrieks and laughs.

“Not yet, you don't. Tell the being you call Goodnight that he ought to reconsider what he's planning.”

If there's more to the message, Billy doesn't hear it. The sound of screams has grown so loud now that it drowns out even the demon. He tries to turn to see where it's coming from, but there's nothing for miles and miles. The demon is gone when he turns back around.

The dream is supposed to be over now, or that's how it usually goes. But he's still standing here in the middle of the desert and the fact that this isn't real does nothing to temper the heat radiating all around him or the glare of the sun in his eyes. So if this is really where he's trapped right now, the least he can do is see what's out there.

Billy walks for what feels like miles along the sand, parched and exhausted. In the distance, off to the right on the horizon, he sees an oasis and changes course such that he's headed right for it. There is an animal drinking there, but from this far he can't make out what exactly it is. 

As he draws closer, he sees it more clearly – a bull with the wings of some kind of bird. Maybe an eagle. Some species he isn't familiar with. They're impressive to say the least – fully stretched out, they must span many yards. 

Billy closes the gap between them and the bull allows him this.

Carefully, he gets down on his knees next to the animal. Ripples spread out from where its lips touch the water. The pool turns a deep burgundy. Billy cups his hands and dips them in. He draws up the liquid to his mouth, drinking until his thirst is satisfied.

"Water into wine," he says to himself.

Billy looks at the bull in recognition, and it averts its eyes in shame.

"Goody," he says when the animal starts to walk away from him.

There is no response.

He recalls the Owl's words.

"Goody, what are you planning?"

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: whistleonthewind
> 
> Feel free to send Mag 7 prompts for this verse or others! I'll do pretty much any character or pairing as long as it's not non con.


End file.
